


Beatific

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Established Relationship, Foreshadowing, Inline with canon, M/M, No Plot/Plotless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:07:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28696689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Baze abandons the struggle and lets his voice rasp over the emotion clutching a fist around his heart. 'We won’t be coming back.'" In the space before departing for Scarif, Baze sees as clearly as Chirrut.
Relationships: Chirrut Îmwe/Baze Malbus
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	Beatific

Baze doesn’t stay to watch Jyn speak to the rebel squadron. They bear their determination on their faces, written so clearly in the set of jaw and the tension of shoulder that he needs no help from Chirrut’s Force to know the inevitable conclusion of the minimal conversation. The squadron is ready to follow, and Jyn carries the intention to lead: their goal is fixed, now, past any possibility of changing. Baze knows where they are bound, knows where the bonds of camaraderie will lead them; so he turns away, leaving the squadron at his back as he takes the opportunity to give the full of his attention to man next to him.

Chirrut is on his feet, standing upright with his staff braced in front of him between both hands. His chin is lifted, his eyes open and gazing into the distance to watch something Baze can’t see any more than Chirrut can share his more mundane vision of the world. It’s a familiar sight worn to smooth comfort by decades of repetition; it is only the weight of the moment that draws it up from casual routine into Baze’s conscious awareness, where the proof of years written into Chirrut’s familiar face strikes him breathless as if it is his first glimpse of them all over again.

Chirrut cocks his head in answer to Baze’s approach, a smile pulling against his lips. “Baze,” he says, his voice as crisp and certain as the brace of his hands on the weight of his staff set against the floor before him. He shifts his shoulders, tilting into a half-turn towards the other as Baze draws up next to him. “Do you see the shape of our course now?”

Baze grunts. “I don’t pretend to see the future,” he says. “You do enough of that for the both of us.”

Chirrut’s smile cracks onto a grin. “And you have all the vision. Yet what good is it when you refuse to see?”

Baze looks at the tilt of Chirrut’s head, the angle of his shoulders, the familiar comfort of his smile. His throat tightens, his eyes burn. He turns his head to look away, out at the bustle of the strangers filling the base, at the planet that will never replace the home destroyed in their wake. “I see enough.”

“Do you?” Chirrut shifts his staff at the ground as he turns to face Baze fully. “What do you see, Baze Malbus?”

Baze works on the effort of a swallow. It does nothing to free him from the pressure at his chest, nor to ease the ache behind his eyes. He abandons the struggle and lets his voice rasp over the emotion clutching a fist around his heart. “We won’t be coming back.”

Baze doesn’t know what he expects. He gave up optimism unmeasured years ago, dropped it in the dust of Jedha and left it to be trampled beneath Stormtrooper boots. But there is some hope still left to him, it seems, even with his home burnt to bitter ash on his tongue; because Chirrut is still beside him, standing tall and true and trusting to a future that Baze cannot see, can only follow him into. He is longing for reassurance, for a laugh or a smile to dismiss his sense of looming darkness as nothing but the paranoia he wishes it was, but when Chirrut moves it is to lift his hand from his staff to reach for Baze’s arm, and in the weight of his fingers Baze feels a confirmation to sink the last of his desperate hopes.

“All is as it must be,” Chirrut says, soft and nearly apologetic, and Baze shuts his eyes to the pain of resignation. “The Force leads and we must follow. The path is clear.”

Baze shakes his head, knowing Chirrut can’t see the gesture, knowing Chirrut will sense the futile rejection of it all the same. “The path to death?”

Chirrut’s fingers tighten at his arm. “The path to hope,” he says. “It led us to Jyn. Now it points to Scarif.” He lets his hold at Baze’s wrist go to return his grip to his staff. Baze doesn’t need to look at his face to know Chirrut is gazing at the horizon, his clouded eyes fixed on the path of the faith that has ever guided his steps. “I will not turn aside from it now.”

Baze doesn’t turn his head to look in the direction of Chirrut’s gaze. There is nothing there for him, no indication of the certain light that keeps Chirrut’s feet so steady as he continues forward; but he can see the illumination reflected in Chirrut’s face, clear and steady enough to direct his own path.

“I’m going with you,” he says, statement more than reply to a question long-since answered.

Chirrut’s mouth curves wide on a smile. “I know,” he says. He lifts his hand from his staff to reach out and press his palm to Baze’s cheek with unerring certainty. Baze raises his own hand to catch atop Chirrut’s and urge the warmth of the other’s touch against his face, and Chirrut tips his head to direct his smile towards Baze next to him. “You are always with me.”

It is a simple statement, a direct acknowledgment of a fact Baze himself has proven over and over and over again. But Chirrut’s voice grants the words the resonance of a promise, a prophecy fixed against the bedrock of his own faith, and in the bright of his clouded eyes Baze sees the comfort of certainty. Baze ducks his head, surrendering to Chirrut’s confidence, and when Chirrut turns his head up Baze follows the guidance of other’s touch to press his mouth gently to Chirrut’s smile.


End file.
